Winner Takes All
by KLMeri
Summary: Mirror!verse, post first five-year mission. Two bitter rivals are at war over a prize possession. K/S/M; definite K/Mc, S/Mc, K/S. - COMPLETE
1. Part One

**Title**: Winner Takes All (1/?)

**Author**: klmeri

**Rating**: R

**Fandom**: Star Trek TOS

**Pairing**: eventual Kirk/Spock/McCoy; also S/Mc, K/S, K/Mc.

**Disclaimer**: Seriously just monkeying around in this 'verse for pleasure; no monetary circumstances involved.

**Warnings**: slavery, dub-con

**Summary**: Mirror!verse, post first five-year mission. Two bitter rivals are at war over a prize possession.

* * *

**This is based on the background story I concocted in **_**The Return of Vulcan**_**: Vulcan and its culture is at the mercy of the Empire; Vulcans are little more than the chattel of war. Dark themes ensue, be warned!**

* * *

"I don't think you understand, sir."

"Oh, I believe I do. You want to take away the only precious thing I have left in this world."

"You—" The man swallows hard. "—made an agreement, sir."

"Did I?"

"You signed the—"

"I signed it because I had to! I signed it to keep Kirk off my back and away from my family."

"The Admiral won't to press charges."

"The Admiral can go drown himself in the River Styx for all I care."

"Sir?"

"Fine. You, and that bastard of a man, can have what you want. But know this: if I catch so much as a rumor of trouble concerning _what's mine_, I'll be back. With a vengeance. You can count on _that_."

Leonard McCoy—aged, hardened beyond his years—walks away from this pawn of his adversary. So... Kirk wants to play games with McCoy. Let them begin. Leonard has developed a talent for this sort of backhanded dealing; he'll screw Kirk so quickly and smoothly that the Admiral will be slitting his wrists just to save a last ounce of dignity. He'll tear the foundations of the man's world apart, grind them into dust and ashes to be scattered on the grave over which no one will weep. The Great Kirk, he thinks with disgust. A man, like any other, with weakness; a human to be toppled from his throne and speared upon the hungry blades of his false sycophants.

No, Leonard McCoy shall not be so easily defeated this time. Bitterness has roughened his callous heart and let a hatred steep long into a bitter brew.

Kirk wants the Vulcan back? Spock is McCoy's gift from the Empire for a long and fruitful service; McCoy could claim his prize, any prize, and he did so. That Spock belonged to Kirk was the best part. The then-Captain played Leonard like a pro, conned him (how Leonard hates himself for being the blind fool, but he's changed) into bed and into a false security. He planned to betray Leonard in the end.

Leonard betrayed him first.

* * *

"I think this McCoy of yours will fight you, James."

Kirk has his shark's smile in place. "I am betting on it."

The golden-haired woman rolls off his bed and makes no attempt to cover herself. Kirk enjoys watching his possessions bare and branded almost as much as he enjoys fucking them. "I don't understand why you want that—that _alien tr_—" Kirk is on her in an instant, a vice-like grip around her neck and jerks the woman around. She gives a little cry for show because she's used to this sort of rough handling.

"Mind what you say, my dear," he purrs and bites down on her shoulder.

"But he's _Vulcan_. Surely he's not…"

"… a wildcat in bed, like yourself?" Kirk finishes. "No, Spock isn't. He's controlled, oh so very_ controlled_ with his responses."

She pouts and slides a hand down his chest. "What fun is that?"

Kirk's eyes are heavy-lidded as she teases him, though he's already half-aroused. "Who said I fucked him for fun?"

The woman laughs and drops to her knees. She asks, "Then why bother?"

"Because I was his captain; I was entitled."

"Captain…" Her laugh changes to something more throaty and seductive. "…Wish I'd known you when you were Captain."

He digs his fingers into her hair and pulls back her head, exposing the white skin of her throat. "No, you don't." His thumb brushes against the pulsing arterial vein, pressing on it. "Captains are more… involved in subduing the enemy. Today I can order an execution and leave the sticky details to lesser men. I can be… soft," he says with an almost sneer.

She palms him. "Nothing soft here, Admiral." She makes an appreciative noise and he releases her to her task.

Kirk throws his head back, crooning to himself, "I almost miss it."

* * *

"I'm being reinstated into the Fleet," Leonard informs Spock as he strips off his clothes. The trip to and from San Francisco was nothing short of a nightmare; at least Georgia is in the throes of a hot summer, warm enough for his old bones. (Spock's too, in some respect.)

The Vulcan moves silently as a cat, like always, and picks up the items McCoy casually discards. When the silence stretches on for too long, Leonard demands, "Well, speak up! I know you've got an opinion on the matter in that dismal Vulcan brain of yours."

"My opinion is irrelevant to your orders, Doctor."

"Leonard. It's fucking Leonard, you half-wit."

"And I remind you that the use of your first name is inappropriate, given my status."

Leonard sneers. Spock knows damn well how he feels about the Vulcan's status. How many times have they had this conversation? Just because he owns Spock, in the eyes of the Empire, doesn't mean that Leonard wants a sniveling servant. Far from it.

McCoy is not a particularly nice man; not in this world. He enjoys a good fuck just like any red-blooded human, which Spock is able to provide when Leonard is in the mood. And he doesn't necessarily care to squabble over the term consensual sex—hell, in his profession, a man learns to treat a wound as only a wound, no matter where it's located or how it occurred. (Caring is weakness; weakness is sure death.)

If Spock is particularly frigid, Len won't order him to bend over the nearest table. That gets them both nowhere, fast. He bides his time, allows Spock to decide when sexual conquest is suitable because Spock maintains no illusions about his predicament. The Vulcan understands well enough the type of Hell he could be in right now, instead of with Leonard in Georgia. The end of the five-year mission for the ISS Enterprise was a damn travesty for those without societal status in the Empire; Spock could have become a pet or a fuck-toy for any number of "masters" in the Fleet—passed around from Admiral's bed to Admiral's bed as a nightly entertainment.

Vulcans have no rights in the Empire.

Leonard, as a human, has every right.

So Spock knows that Leonard's choice to claim him was a minor miracle, because there could be worser fates.

There are days when Leonard warns the Vulcan not to make him regret his choice. He calls it "saving your skinny Vulcan ass so be grateful!" However, this is not true in the least. Leonard does not regret his prize at all; in fact, the memory of Kirk's rage (and inability to do anything about it) keeps Leonard warm at night. He has Spock, a toy that the Captain thought was solely his (and would continue to be his). Leonard is satisfied, then, in the knowledge of Kirk's loss. (Let him suffer.) If Spock is aware of the real reason for his "rescue," that he is but merely a pawn in a spiteful game of chess between Kirk and McCoy, he keeps his silence.

Leonard stretches out on his bed, naked and tucks an arm behind his head. He watches Spock blink stoically from the corner of his room. "Come over here," he orders.

Spock complies.

"Sit down."

Spock complies.

"You are still my property, Mr. Spock. Kirk cannot change that. Yet. Rest assured that he will try."

"Understood."

"I have to return to Starfleet Medical in one month. I can leave you here in Georgia."

Spock says nothing of McCoy's offer.

"Where will you be most vulnerable, Spock? With or without me?"

"Without you" is the flat reply.

"Correct. Kirk would love for me to turn my back on you, take my eye off of you just for a second. So you're coming to San Francisco too."

"As you wish, Doctor."

Leonard reaches out and grasps the Vulcan's wrist. Spock does not resist the forward pull. Leonard asks him, his lips a hair's breadth away from a pointed ear, "Who do you belong to?"

"I am your property."

"Whose property?"

"I am the property of Leonard McCoy," Spock corrects.

McCoy releases him. "Remember those words, darlin'. I want you to know exactly what to tell James T. Kirk when he sees you again."

"I shall remember," the Vulcan promises.


	2. Part Two

***laughs nervously* Okay, so I am really testing my boundaries of comfort with this fic. My brain vacillates between throwing me tempting lines and activating a very shrill **_**Do Not Proceed!**_** warning bell; it's really sort of like being pulled in two different directions while helpless to take control of the situation. Therefore I make no promises, except that I will try my best not to freak out the readers (and myself) or produce a poor quality story. Good luck to us all!**

* * *

Leonard is not surprised in the least to find a welcoming gift on his office desk. It's even less surprising that the bottle of bourbon has a red bow with an attached card that says _Welcome back, Bon_es in a familiar scrawl.

Kirk is fucking with him of course; well, maybe not entirely. While the bourbon could be poisoned, it isn't Kirk's style for killing a man. So Leonard is rather satisfied in the knowledge that he can crack open the bottle and pour a shot to commemorate the beginning of his first day back on the job. Jim—_fuck it_—Kirk, he means, is signaling the start of the game.

He knows good and well that Starfleet hasn't suddenly remembered what an asset McCoy is to the Empire and voided his retirement status. It's the Admiral's doing; Kirk finally convinced enough people—or slept with enough assholes—to get McCoy dragged back from the depths of homey Georgia. What his once-lover-now-enemy fails to realize is that McCoy planned for this event. Extensively.

Starfleet Command is a party of vile, ruthless men who have destroyed any number of civilizations and conquered hundreds of worlds in the name of the Empire. These are men who sailed the stars and then retired their command gold for a job well-done; men whose lives are worth more in tactical positions of power than wasted on the battlefield until incompetency or death wins.

And they are puppets to another group of viler, more ruthless animals unmatched in the evil of their nature—the Emperor's Council. Anyone with an ounce of self-preservation knows that the Council isn't a bunch of slack-jawed old codgers that bow to the whim of the Emperor. The media plays upon the trivial matters such as where Councilman Y'Rasck beds his whores or which vacation planet one of the members just destroyed in a fit of rage; the subjugated (desperate) public eats it up with a spoon. In truth, however, the media sells only the stories approved by the Empire; and so those officers who enlist into service learn very quickly just how much of a fantasy they've been living in as civilians. The Council is the brilliance behind the intergalactic wars raging in every quadrant. They own every fucking piece of property in the Empire—in the name of the Emperor—despite what a man's measly contract may say; every commoner, criminal, or vagabond is but a renter of the space he travels in and the air he breathes. He's expendable, essentially, until otherwise notified.

When McCoy made that split-second decision to claim Spock for his own and drive James T. Kirk to unbridled revenge, he had to sell his last illusion of independence for protection. McCoy is a wing-man of maniacs, subject to their whims for biological warfare and selective torture. (Like CMO all over again but on a much, much larger scale.) He is on call for duty, at any hour of any day. If McCoy is in the process of treating a high-ranking official for a bout of gout and the message comes in to cut the fellow's heart out, ice it and send it to his family, then McCoy does just that. Travel to the Beta Quadrant and euthanize an entire mining planet? He packs up a bag or two and Spock and heads out into space for three months. No questions asked; no orders refused. Three long years of "retirement" and no one but the selective few the wiser.

In return he is untouchable to Kirk, or any Starfleet official for that matter—and his slave Spock, as well. Until, that is, the Fleet drafted him back into service and his "protectors" (the contract owners of his soul) decided it was a good idea. So McCoy arrives in San Francisco with Spock in tow and has to make do with being so close to Admiral Kirk and the surprises that surely await them both. At least his rank has improved and McCoy can safely say he's headed on the path to Surgeon General in several more years. He never was satisfied as an old country doctor, not with the type of medical advancements available for play. Nor was McCoy much for power-mongering, except when it prevented sticky situations and kept his ass from being targeted by every dick in the medical field. Give him the comfort and excitement of running a department, allow him to choose who he beds, be able to feed his addictions and all's well with the world. Perhaps throw in a patient or two for procedure practice when bored... What more should a man of Leonard McCoy's profession want?

He almost has his desires, all except one. Except Jim.

And it's that desire that makes McCoy so very angry. He was an idiot to become sexually involved with the Captain in the first place. They had an arrangement aboard the ship from that first day McCoy was brought in to replace a CMO who had mysteriously disappeared, whose body was never recovered. (Leonard knows how much Scotty enjoys watching a man roast, so the doctor has little doubt of what really happened to Boyce.) Kirk greeted him with a look that boded ill and, quite expectedly, made a midnight visit to McCoy's quarters:

"_Am I Captain of this ship?"_

"_Sure, I suppose so." McCoy didn't hide his annoyance at the blatant interruption, continued unpacking. He opened his bathroom kit._

"_Then you owe me a proper greeting, Doctor."_

_Leonard turned around slowly, an old-fashioned razor blade in hand. Kirk flicked his gaze from it to the Doctor's face and grinned just as slowly._

"_Now, I imagine it'd be best to get a few matters ironed out, Captain," McCoy said, baring his teeth. "I should warn you that I'm a paranoid fellow, Kirk, and that means I tend to act first and think later."_

_Kirk stepped into Leonard's personal space, leaned forward and settled his hands on either side of the doctor, trapping McCoy against the table. Neither man displayed signs of nerves; they were perfectly matched, Kirk with an un-batting eye close to the edge of the blade and McCoy with a steady hand._

"_Are you threatening your superior?"_

"_I'm informing you that if you make me unhappy, your first physical will be your last." McCoy allowed Kirk to run a finger along the scar that stretches from his eyebrow to ear, close to his hairline._

"_Nice," Kirk murmured. "Why don't you have it removed?"_

"_It's a trophy."_

_They locked stares for too long, breathing on each other, until Kirk finally stepped back. _

"_You'll do. Keep me in good health, McCoy, and this partnership may work."_

_McCoy only answered, "Good evening, Captain."_

_That bright predator grin was back in a flash. "If you change your mind…"_

"_I won't."_

"_We'll see." As the Captain exited, satisfied in a way he had probably anticipated, he told McCoy, "You can call me Jim." _

Kirk never had repentance for his blatant desire to screw his CMO. Whether it was because McCoy defied the tradition and refused to let the Captain fuck him, or that Kirk just liked the idea of conquest, Leonard will never know. He almost asked once, in a lull between orgasms, but became distracted by the Orion that Kirk had brought for their bedroom games. The truth is simply that Jim eventually seduced McCoy—after a long three years of trying—into routine trysts and their partnership truly did grow to spectacular heights.

Then the end of the mission was approaching and Leonard was going to get screwed permanently…

He still wants Jim Kirk. Fiercely. He also hates the man with a passion bordering on obsessive. When he is coming in Spock's mouth, he thinks about how Jim would touch the Vulcan in the middle of battle, run his hand over that stiff back with a possessiveness that made others envious. He imagines how Jim would have felt, in bed with the Vulcan, dominating and flat-palmed against the sheets as he thrusts. Leonard pretends he is Kirk during sex, sometimes, and later slices through his patients in a sick rage.

Kirk has destroyed Leonard in a way that shouldn't be possible.

He won't repay the Admiral with any less enthusiasm.

Leonard leans over and presses the comm for his staff. "Retrieve Mr. Spock."

Spock arrives within five minutes of the summons, and McCoy dismisses the man escorting him.

"Been enjoying yourself?"

"I have perused the data on a new strain of bacteria engineered to—"

Leonard grimaces and tells the Vulcan to shut up. "Look, I know you were going stir-crazy in Georgia without a lab and experiments to feed your brain, so I've arranged a position for you."

Spock is calm and blank-faced as ever. "I give you my sincerest thanks, Doctor."

"Well, I cannot have you moping about and I cannot keep you in Medical all the time; the staff thinks you're here to screw over the minds of our top-priority patients or some such shit. It disturbs my work environment, and I need a focused team. I'm doing myself the favor, not you."

"Understood."

"One of the researchers for the Department Head in something-or-other—scientific, I'm sure, don't worry—came in for a checkup." McCoy grins. "Unfortunately, he had a strange mole on his arm that required amputation. He's been decommissioned and you'll take his place."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Leonard comes around his desk and places a soft kiss on those cold Vulcan lips. He runs a hand down Spock's arm as he asks, "Have you received any communication from the Admiral?"

"No."

"Would you tell me if you had, Spock?"

"Yes."

"You're very lucky, for a green-blooded hobgoblin. I believe you."

Spock knows that McCoy has him monitored at all times; just as Spock knows that McCoy himself is monitored by Others. Vulcans aren't stupid creatures, just rather selective on what information they choose to reveal. McCoy appreciates this.

"You can start immediately. Return here at 1800 hours." Leonard then raises his finger as if he has just remembered a tiny detail. "Hold on a moment there, Spock."

McCoy dips a hand into his coat pocket and pulls out a scalpel. "Don't move, sweetheart. Wouldn't want to accidentally damage your pretty ear; I won't have time to fix it if I do."

He runs his fingers through the hair just over the edge of Spock's ear, gently pulls up a tuft and saws it off.

"There you go. Have fun now."

Spock is released to his work, and McCoy returns to his desk. He removes the bow from Kirk's gift and ties it around the lock of hair. The package is then placed meticulously into a small wooden box and casually handed it to a wide-eyed nurse with the instructions "Have this delivered to Admiral Kirk."

As he proceeds down to the Isolation facility, Leonard leans against the inside wall of the elevator, smiles and strokes his scar.

* * *

Kirk is fed up with the daily Board meeting. As the pompous ass across the room drones on about the conditions for hostile takeover in a tiny sector of a quadrant no one should really give a damn about (Kirk certainly doesn't), his mind starts to drift. He wonders if Bones liked the bottle of vintage liquor. It is, after all, the man's preferred choice of drink. He recalls licking the taste of bourbon from McCoy's mouth on more than one occasion. No other person can carry that scent like a cologne the way the doctor does.

It makes him hard, and fucking Admiral Morrow beside him chuckles and smirks knowingly. If Kirk weren't in the company of so many witnesses, he'd smash the man's teeth in for that kind of leer and set his officer dogs to rip the unfortunate soul to shreds. But Admiral Kirk doesn't have that sort of (manic) loyalty at his disposal; he isn't Captain to a band of thugs and butchers who appreciate an order for bloodshed. The kind of obedience here is shallow and fleeting. If Kirk is in favor this week, he has the control any man would envy; if the Admiral is on the shit-list—as he is as often as not—then the days are all work and no play and full of a lot of throat-cutting until he's won a momentary respect from his colleagues. It's positive Hell for a man not used to sharing his spoils of war.

Accepting the advancement into the Admiralty was a poor choice for a man like Kirk, and he knows it. There was little else to be done, at the time, to cement his position once faced with such a terrible loss of warfare (his precious toy). Just thinking of the circumstances—in that second month before the Enterprise faced a change of Captaincy—makes the fury boil in his veins. That bitch Moreau, whom he gave his protection under coveted title of Captain's Woman, is long-dead but she still has a way of making him suffer from whatever pitch-hot Hell she burns in. It was cunning to be sure. She plotted, schemed and almost succeeded in destroying him entirely. While he retains his life, he forfeited a device which no other Imperial Captain had. He lost his imminent rise to Emperor and his security in one fell-swoop. Men still fear him, no doubt, and linger over the string of his enemies' unnerving disappearances. They do not know better, and Kirk won't inform them otherwise. So he has that margin of control through the past but eventually someone will wise up to the fact that Kirk doesn't dispose of his troubles as tidily as he used to. They'll catch him, one day, in the dark and with nothing but his hands for defense and a cold certainty of demise.

"Admiral, Sir."

A woman disturbs into his thoughts. He forgives her instantly as she leans over, licks her lips, presenting her goods, and then a small box.

"For me?" he asks with a grin.

"Yes, Admiral. Special delivery."

His fingers stroke the wood of the box as he eyes her long legs. "I can see that. Name?"

"Lieutenant-Commander Greeves, Sir."

Kirk runs a hand up the back of her short skirt and tells her, "Give your information to my secretary." He winks and dismisses her.

A smile still plays about his lips as he turns to his companion and says, "Open this for me."

"Oh but it's addressed to you, Kirk. I'd rather not."

"Open it, Morrow," he warns, "or we'll all be discussing your involvement in the Romulans' request for pardon."

Morrow jerks the box over and flips off the lid. When he pulls out the contents, Kirk snatches it from him.

"Disgusting," the man murmurs, wiping his hands on his pants. Kirk ignores him and fingers the lock of hair. For it's exactly as he remembers—black, rough-textured and lightly scented of the spicy Vulcan incense that Spock prefers.

So that's how McCoy wants to play?

Kirk imagines the day he will have that Vulcan flesh bruising under his hands again; yes, and he'll alternate between forcing McCoy to watch and peeling the skin off the doctor's fingers for touching what doesn't belong to him. Now it is only a little matter of strategy—which he excels at—and a few inquiries to the right people.

Leonard McCoy can flaunt Spock all he pleases. When the deal's done, James T. Kirk shall be the winner who takes all.


	3. Part Three

Spock is not merely calculating; he is a mastermind.

A plan takes finesse and meticulous thought; it takes patience and strong will. Spock has long excelled at each of these aspects—which is probably why the Empire allowed him the rank of Commander when the rest of his race are the expendable lieutenants or easily replaced scientists. Spock is different, half-Human, and a product of careful engineering on the Empire's behalf. He hypothesizes that the Council will use many tactics to ensure his cooperation, to impress upon him his dependence on the good will of the Empire; he is not disappointed. No, Spock is, if anything, rewarded by their typical behavior. It's an important element in the carefully conceived plan for domination, after all.

It begins quite simply after he discovers the reason behind the disappearances of Kirk's enemies. He thinks on this device for many days, decides that he must have it (makes discreet study of it). There is the matter of the Captain, who Spock could easily destroy in a heartbeat with his own device; however, Spock knows with absolute certainty that even if he achieves the Captaincy of the Enterprise, it won't be enough to attain his goal.

So he needs Kirk. He needs the Captain vulnerable, obsessed and pliable to the Vulcan's will. The waiting shall be long, but Spock has plenty of time.

The Captain takes him to bed intermittently throughout the first half of their five-year mission. Kirk loves variety in his partners of fornication, but he also has a desire for a man that won't bow to him—the CMO. When Spock sets his plan into motion, he considers the doctor, at first, as a wild card. By then Kirk finally convinces McCoy to sleep with him—without force, which the Vulcan finds a fascinating display of strange Human behavior—and their relationship is a impediment to Spock. Until the night Kirk shares him with McCoy.

McCoy enjoys watching Kirk take Spock, but it is that flicker in the doctor's eyes and McCoy's deliberate slide of fingers across the Vulcan's face that gives Spock the first underpinnings of his plan. Leonard McCoy is jealous. A Human's jealousy is one of his greatest weaknesses; it highlights for Spock that which he must accomplish in the latter half of the Enterprise's commission.

Thus begins the game. It is simple enough to employ the weapon which the Empire cannot take from Spock without destroying him entirely—his mind. One carefully planted desire into the Captain for _more-mine_, and Spock's trysts with Kirk increase in frequency. McCoy is more difficult to affect, in the beginning; Spock has only the meager advantage during physical evaluations or medical repair. Then, in a turn of good fortune, Kirk allows McCoy to take his satisfaction from the Vulcan after a heated argument over Kirk's inability to share. Spock remains expressionless (always) as McCoy twists and pulls and rides through orgasm against him, but his Vulcan hands stay locked onto that sweat-slick skin, feeds the doctor a latent sense of distrust and suspicion.

After that, Kirk wants Spock with him, riding him, often; touches Spock in public to brand him as Kirk's. McCoy watches with cold eyes and corners the Vulcan for silent inspection, as if the doctor might figure out what it is that Kirk wants from his First Officer besides sex. Tight-lipped and scowling, he lets Kirk dictate their bedroom games, incorporate Spock into them, and Spock is able to effectively enhance the doctor's sense of paranoia.

The crescendo happens like a starburst. Moreau, who knows of Kirk's weapon, plots (at Spock's careful quiet hinting) against her lover—half from jealousy, half in memory of another (alternate) Kirk. As the five-year mission comes grindingly to a stand-still, there is a night when Moreau secludes herself in the Captain's quarters, and Spock informs his superior of (the rumor of) her intentions to destroy him. By the time Kirk is able to break through the door (with Spock's help), she is attempting to focus the screen on Kirk and the Captain has little option but to blast the device with his phaser into a gaping hole of melted wires and a shower of sparks.

Moreau is screaming _Spock_ and _you lied to me_ as the Vulcan disarms her and just as swiftly crushes her mind into insanity and disjointed thoughts. Thereafter, through long torture sessions, she can only bleat to Kirk about betrayal and how Spock has taken her place; more often, that Kirk is not the man he should be, that his demise sets right a wrong. Kirk watches on in disgust and rage. She is executed and her body dropped into space.

James T. Kirk is weakened to a man like the rest. He is more short-tempered than usual, spending hours in conversation with Starfleet Command rather than in conquest. The sex, sparse in occurrence, is rough, short and distracted. Spock continues to saturate the Captain's mind and, expectedly, Kirk bites out to Spock, "I need you" as he shudders with release. McCoy, the voyeur, silently slides from the quarters and Spock watches him go with dark knowing eyes.

The doctor grows restless and agitated, vicious in his work, as the final day draws near. So it is that McCoy plays the last act much like a puppet. The Enterprise crew is solicitously welcomed home, Kirk named Admiral (as McCoy goes white), and the doctor allowed his request for retirement and a parting gift. When Leonard McCoy says, in that thick (malevolent) drawl, "I'll take the Vulcan," Spock is secretly pleased. Kirk goes stiff as Spock walks to the doctor's side and kneels at his feet.

McCoy's parting "See ya, _Admiral_" rings through the hall. Spock is led away.

If the Empire believes that the Vulcan needs a taste of slavery under the hand of a Human to become compliant, they are gravely mistaken. Spock is the perfect companion—and a deception-in-waiting. McCoy secures protection from the Council partially due to Spock's presence (which they want to preserve), though McCoy cannot know this. And when the moment arrives that McCoy and Kirk shall meet again, the Vulcan has details in place: the recalibrated mechanics of Kirk's device, a potential method of infiltration into the Council of the Emperor, and two Humans primed for the taking.

* * *

When the abductors come for Spock in his science lab, he does not resist. When he is left in an empty room with a single flickering light and mostly shadows, he does not flinch at the sound of Kirk's voice or at the hands that dig into his waist.

"Hello, Spock."

"Admiral."

The Human leans against his back, lips against the Vulcan's skin.

"Miss me?"

Spock tilts his head to the left and Kirk takes the opportunity to bite down on the exposed juncture of neck and shoulder. He replies, in an even voice, as Kirk sucks a mark, "I am the property of Leonard McCoy."

That's all it takes; Kirk shoves him forward with a snarl and Spock catches himself against the wall. (No fighting; no resistance.) "Are you?" the Human demands as he presses the Vulcan flat. Spock's hands are locked over his head. (Such foolish Humans.) Spock allows the restraint.

"I am the property of Leonard McCoy."

The Admiral drives a knee between his legs. "You're mine."

"Negative." Spock informs him, "Should you wish to reclaim me, _Captain_—" The word is selectively lower than the rest of the sentence; it has the desired effect—Kirk is listening. "—you must ask the Doctor."

"Bones wants me to beg, does he? I'll cut his heart out."

"I do not presume to know the Doctor's intentions."

Kirk releases him, then, and Spock remains motionless, listening to the man's heavy breaths. Finally, Kirk asks, "Where?"

Spock gives him the time and location for a meeting. Before the Admiral leaves, he drags the Vulcan around for a kiss, breaks the skin of Spock's lower lip so that it bleeds. It's a message to McCoy, one which Spock will be most satisfied to present.

* * *

McCoy shreds Spock's clothes the moment they are inside their apartment. He looks at each bruise—on the wrists, the love-bite at the neck, and dark swelling on the Vulcan's inner thighs. Leonard seethes.

So Jim did it. Jim fucking went ahead and placed his hands on Spock. When Spock walked into his office and Leonard caught the bloodied lip, it almost broke his control right then and there. Sure, he's been waiting for some type of move like this, a call to battle, but he had not anticipated the kind of thrilling fury it brings to the surface.

The two men—Kirk and McCoy—have been trading "gifts" for the past month. Kirk sends a whore to his office; McCoy sends back her hand. A soft traditional Vulcan robe (new, not one of Spock's) laid out across his bed? It's returned to the Admiral covered in green blood and stinking of sex. (The doctor enjoyed fucking Spock on it, very much so.) The messages get sharper, uglier—more dangerous. Leonard almost enjoys the game, waiting for the next clash.

Then Kirk steps across that invisible line, finally, and Leonard is livid.

"Did he fuck you?" Leonard demands as he probes the Vulcan for the answer.

"No."

"You lying to me? Did you enjoy it?"

"Negative. There was no copulation, Doctor."

Leonard removes his fingers, wraps them around Spock's wrist and tugs him into the bedroom. "On the bed."

Spock sits down on the edge and watches him with those unnerving eyes. Leonard kneels in front of him and runs his hands up the exposed, green-tinted thighs. His fingers press down on the hipbones.

"What did Jim say?"

Spock blinks at him. "The Admiral requests… communication with you."

"We've been communicating." Just not with words. So Jimmy-boy thinks he can get Leonard this way; lure the doctor in and probably slit his throat, then screw Spock over his cooling corpse. (_Not gonna happen._) His scar burns and he thinks he hears a faint echo of his ex-wife's screams as he cut her open.

"Tell me," Leonard orders.

Spock does.


	4. Part Four

It's because neither man is paying attention to the Vulcan that they end up imprisoned together. McCoy is too busy nervously twitching his fingers for the scalpel in his boot and Kirk alternates between trying to look in control and slowly stripping the doctor with his eyes. He's not listening to McCoy rant, that's for sure.

"Spock's mine, you mother-fucker! The next time you lay hands on _my property_, I'll fuck you over so bad you'll be uglier than a poxed Risan whore!"

"You look good, Bones."

"Quite fucking changing the subject," McCoy growls. "This isn't a happy family reunion."

Kirk licks his bottom lip, knows McCoy likes to watch him to do so. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you now, Bones."

"You'll be dead in a week."

"Oh?"

"Yeah _oh_, Admiral. You fuck with me, you fuck with some seriously nasty people."

"And yet you didn't bring a single man for backup or to guard you. Foolish."

"Don't need some shit cadet with an itchy trigger finger. I can handle you just fine myself. 'Sides, where's your loyal brigade? Oh that's right!" McCoy sneers, "You don't have one. Must be tough times."

Kirk pushes away from the only table in the empty warehouse locker. He does a languid prowl, circling McCoy who never takes his eyes off his enemy. Spock stands silently, back to a wall, ordered to remain there for the duration of the "discussion" between the two rivals.

"I can kill you with my bare hands, McCoy."

"Yeah? Then what's with the phaser you're packing?"

Kirk strokes it lovingly. "It's my favorite."

"Coward," the doctor taunts softly.

Kirk unstraps his weapon and kicks it to the side. It skitters into a shadow, lost. "Satisfied? Good. Then I suggest you remove your weapon, Doctor."

McCoy rubs a finger over his lip as if the matter requires serious thought. "And what would that be, _Jim?_" He drawls the man's first name like a sin.

Kirk slips up to him—close enough to brush chests—then slowly rests a hand on McCoy and pushes him backward. The doctor lets him, hits the edge of the table and sits down. The Admiral briefly squeezes the man's hip with his other hand, trails it down under McCoy's calf and settles the booted foot against his thigh. His fingers tease the skin under the pants leg as McCoy watches him through slitted eyes. Then Kirk casually pulls out the scalpel from McCoy's boot and holds it up like a prize.

"Look familiar, Doctor?"

"Nope," McCoy lies.

Kirk steps back and McCoy's foot drops to the ground. McCoy doesn't bother to observe Kirk stroking his scalpel; no, his eyes are solely locked onto Kirk's.

"You've disarmed me, Jim." His voice is low, like gravel. "What's your plan now? Gonna cut me up?"

"Should I?"

"Should you?" McCoy repeats. They take each other's measure for some seconds.

"You stole from me, McCoy."

"You mean I was one step ahead of your game."

"What game?" Kirk asks with narrowed eyes.

"Don't play dumb with me, _Captain_. Everybody's expendable to you; we're all just good fucks until it's time for you to move on." McCoy stands and slides up to Kirk, right in his face, not minding the blade in Kirk's hand in the least. "And you don't like to leave messes behind, do you, Jim?"

Kirk's eyes are cold as he presses the flat of the scalpel against McCoy's cheekbone, just below his scar. "I don't like betrayal."

"Do it," McCoy tells him. "Because if you don't take the time to clean up _this mess_, Jim my boy, you'll regret it the rest of your life. I can promise you that."

There is a rumbling in Kirk's chest. He leans in, lightly presses his lips against the other man's. He does not linger.

"A goodbye kiss?" McCoy asks too softly.

"A reminder," Kirk tells him. The scalpel is tossed to the floor with a _clatter_.

Leonard digs his fingers into the Admiral's shirt, draws him back in. "I don't need a reminder," he replies and kisses Jim hard.

They slam onto the table in a tangle of limbs, McCoy on his back and leg hooked around Kirk to keep the man half-bent over him. Leonard's shirt is bunched up under his armpits and Jim is rolling the hard pebble of one nipple between unforgiving teeth. McCoy makes a noise of pleasure.

"I find this display most illogical," a voice tells them, not too far away.

"Spock," Leonard half-gasps as Jim releases his flesh. "Told you to stay put."

Kirk gives a soft laugh. "Has Mr. Spock quit following orders so well, Bones?" His voice is laced with amusement and lust.

Leonard digs the heel of his boot into the back of Jim's thigh for leverage and bucks against the man. "He's pretty damn good at everything, actually."

Jim grunts and grinds his hips down in response. Then he goes absolutely still at the familiar sound of a phaser powering to the kill setting. (Kirk loves that hum.)

"Your speculation is inconsequential, gentlemen," Spock tells them. McCoy and Kirk both watch as the Vulcan steps out of the shadows with a phaser in his right hand.

"Damn it, Jim," McCoy complains. "You aren't supposed to leave a weapon lying around the repressed and down-trodden."

Kirk admits, "I was distracted." He pats McCoy's lower stomach and the doctor's legs release him. Kirk straightens up, cracks his neck and stares at the hard-eyed Vulcan. "Well," he asks mildly. "What is it that you want, Mr. Spock?"

"What I desire is an objective that you cannot provide me at this time nor without the appropriate aid."

McCoy fixes his shirt and pants, remains seated on the table, elbows on his thighs. "Maybe Spock wants to be in the middle, Jim." Kirk chuckles in remembrance of the past.

"Humor is unnecessary, Doctor. I will state now, for the record, that I find fraternization with Humans to be only partially satisfactory."

McCoy sniffs. "That because you weren't on top. It's good from the top, right, Jim-boy?"

"Excellent, Bones."

"We may discuss alternate arrangements at a later date."

"Excuse me?" McCoy drawls too slowly. "What part of the definition 'slave' escapes you, Spock?"

"A slave is a creature subject to the will of another." McCoy's eyebrow goes up. Spock continues, "You will find that I am not a slave, McCoy; I am your master."

"Spock," Kirk tells him. "You'll have to kill us both, you understand. As subjects of the Empire, we have a responsibility to report your treasonous behavior."

Spock tilts his head and watches them both with calculating eyes. "Subjects to the Empire," he repeats monotonously. "You are also a slave, are you not, Captain?"

"Semantics," Kirk says. "Put down the phaser and I may not kill you."

It never wavers in the Vulcan's hand. Kirk knows that is bad news.

"I did not bring you here for the purpose of destroying you," Spock informs them, icy cold. "I wish to determine your collective worth."

Kirk crosses his arms and McCoy hops off the table.

"Humans are weak to their emotions and malleable to mental coercion; in this regard, you have proven the defects of your race."

Kirk takes a step forward in building anger, and Spock raises the phaser in warning. "I will kill you, Captain, Doctor, should you disregard my offer and attempt any foolish action."

"You haven't made us an offer," McCoy reminds him.

"Why?" Kirk wants to know.

Spock seems to consider his answer. "My current status is insufficient protection against suspicion." McCoy snorts but the Vulcan ignores him, addresses Kirk. "For this reason alone, I did not commandeer the Enterprise."

A momentary jerk overtakes Kirk's body, McCoy feels it as close as he is to the man. For an emotionless Vulcan, Spock is emitting a strong sense of ruthless victory.

"You desired the power of Emperor, did you not?"

Kirk answers succinctly, "Yes."

"I can restore your plans—with minor… alternations. I have re-engineered the design of your device."

McCoy's nostrils flare and his hand snakes up to grip the Admiral's arm viciously. "What device?" His question is menacing.

Kirk reaches over and runs his thumb along McCoy's bottom lip. "Just a toy, Bones. For keeping my enemies off my back."

Leonard's eyes are hard as his mind assimilates the odd puzzles pieces into a coherent picture. "It was destroyed," the doctor clarifies.

"It shall be rebuilt, in more useful form," Spock replies.

"What do you get out of this, Spock?" Leonard asks.

The Vulcan flicks a change of setting on the phaser with his thumb. "More than you can conceive, Doctor" is the soft reply. "I shall allow you both thirty-six hours in which to contemplate your fate."

Kirk launches forward but Spock stuns him. The phaser is then leveled at the doctor's chest.

Leonard bares his teeth. "You rat bastard."

"Indeed."

Leonard drops like a stone beside one fallen enemy and knows no more.

* * *

Spock returns for them after precisely thirty-five hours. The room smells thickly of sex and urine. McCoy stops in the middle of blowing the Admiral and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Caught us with our pants down, Spock," he drawls.

Kirk looks aggravated that his orgasm is peremptorily terminated. "You're early," he snaps.

"It is a matter of strategy, Captain; I do not prefer… ambushing, as you Humans say. However, I find it agreeable to wait until the appointed time." Spock settles into a stance, armed and blank-faced.

Kirk jerks McCoy's head back around and the doctor snarls. Jim releases a fist full of hair and tells his companion, "Might as well finish what you started, Bones."

The doctor's mouth spreads in a grin. "Beg for me, Jim, and I might consider your request."

Spock says nothing for the next fifty-eight point six minutes, merely watches and catalogues the two Humans' activities with stoic reserve. When the final hour strikes, Kirk is re-dressed in his uniform and McCoy is idly propped against a table leg, smirking and bare as the day he was born. His clothes are a pile of precisely shredded fabric. Spock notes the scalpel discarded across the room. (The Humans made use of it after all.)

Spock inclines his head to the Admiral. "Shall we proceed with the discussion?"

McCoy replies for them both. "Yep. Now tell me you brought more than ration-bars. I'm hungry as blazes."


	5. Part Five

At the end of his shift, Leonard is casually leaning back in his office chair and chatting with a colleague. When his Vulcan arrives, per usual, to be escorted home with McCoy, he gives Spock permission to enter, sees the neurologist out the door with all the gentlemanly charm of a psychopath and orders the locks engaged.

Spock stands so compliantly still with his hands clasped behind his back, that the sight pisses Leonard off. He hates charades. "Tell me again why the Admiral and I shouldn't kill you or turn you in?" he spits.

The Vulcan raises his eyebrow slowly. "You may attempt to do so, if it pleases you, Doctor."

Of course Spock is as blunt as ever and the doctor understands that, by the choice of words, the Vulcan already has several counterattacks running through his super brain—and probably calculated the success rate of each with an ease that would make a war general envious.

"I wouldn't dare sleep if I were you, hobgoblin," Leonard warns him.

"You would incite the Admiral's displeasure by harming me?" Spock sounds amused, if such a thing is possible. "Leonard, as I understand the situation, your lover made it quite clear how… _abundantly_ he desires what I can provide."

On the surface, Spock refers to the device that he is rebuilding in a special laboratory—mysteriously made available to McCoy's Vulcan slave (no one with smarts and a desire to live asks details); Jim wants his weapon back very much indeed, enough that he broke Leonard's fingers on his left hand when the doctor sincerely offered to kill Spock. However, the innuendo hidden beneath bothers McCoy to no end: Spock is also asserting the fact that Jim—somehow, some way—still wants to bed the Vulcan.

Normally, Leonard is tolerant for Kirk's libido. Hell, he even appreciated the extra "attention" Jim found for some of their evenings together. But this isn't the Enterprise in the middle of deep space. Three years of being on solid good earth (mostly) and of struggling with a hatred and bitterness for a lover he still wanted… it changes a man and his desires. Leonard still enjoys variety, but he no longer wants to share.

Call it settling down; call it severe obsession.

McCoy doesn't give a damn what it is the Vulcan is after or has planned for Kirk and McCoy in the end. If Spock decides to play Kirk against McCoy, he'll meet an unfortunate accident. Spock may be handy to have around for a lot of reasons, including sexual satisfaction, but that it isn't enough for Leonard to turn a blind eye to a potential opponent. Especially not one as slyly deceptive as this half-Human, half-Vulcan.

He hates being duped; he hates being controlled and at the mercy of someone_ lesser_. It's a natural reaction for a Human with a proper ego and a good deal of respect in his profession. Unfortunately, somewhere deep down, Leonard admits to a margin of acknowledgment on the Vulcan's behalf. Spock is good at carefully crafted ruses, most likely a cultivated skill for survival in a cruel world.

But that's just it. The world is cruel, at least this part of the galaxy (Empire) is, and Leonard makes no bones about what he is or how he has to get through each day. Intelligence gets you only so far and cruelty much farther. There is no room for gentleness or compassion, no need to fight for another when chances are the return favor will be a knife in your back.

So with great suspicion and distrust, with bitter acceptance and a heightened sense for danger, Leonard waits like a snake in the grass. Lie low, observe, and prepare to strike.

Unfortunately, Spock is the second snake in the grass and a Hell of a lot more slippery than McCoy. No matter. The doctor has a sack of venom, like acid, for the perfect moment of attack.

He slips off his lab-coat, collects his Vulcan and heads for home.

* * *

The Admiral packs a box and instructs an assistant to wrap it nicely. "For McCoy," he tells her. That's all he needs to say.

The battle between Doctor McCoy and Admiral Kirk has grown legendary among the halls of Starfleet. Per Spock's instructions (this amuses Kirk), Jim and Leonard must continue to present the impression of two rivals warring for a Vulcan slave. Well, that's not entirely difficult to accomplish because Kirk still wants to claim Spock—he dreams about it often—and McCoy won't give him the opportunity.

Jim is unsure whether Bones is obstinate from pride or refuses Kirk's hints (and demands) just to make him angry. And it does make Kirk angry—entirely too hungry for bloodshed. Jim cannot decide whether he wants to carve up the doctor, the Vulcan, or both. He hopes that at their next rendezvous, he can accomplish at least a pittance of violence against one of them. Bones is the easier target, because he opens himself right up to Kirk like a flower—and enjoys the kind of rough handling that Jim gives in return. The doctor is not vulnerable, not in the least, but he does present a decent illusion of vulnerability. The thought drives Kirk to distraction, sometimes, to touch himself.

Spock, on the other hand, used to bruise so nicely—a lovely shade of dark green. He misses that. Jim understood that Spock was purposefully allowing himself to be harmed by his Captain, as was his duty as a subject to superior authority. That the Vulcan never once uttered a cry, moan or any indication of feeling other than indifference to Kirk's deliberate attempts to hurt him… it was glorious and set the Human on fire with need.

Those memories still press upon him in the dead of night, when he has a playmate held down by the neck and is enjoying himself. Now, however, he wonders how much of his addiction to Vulcan flesh was his own and not an implanted desire from Spock.

For that alone, Kirk is going to allow Spock to make him Emperor and then chain him to a rock and carve out his liver as a modern-day Prometheus. He may even let Bones grow it back just so Kirk can keep doing it, over and over again. How long, then, until Spock can withstand no more agony? How far can Kirk truly go with this Vulcan of his (of Bones' too, he supposes) before that fortified mind shatters at his feet like glass? He's always wanted to test Spock's limits, thought that, as an Admiral with no need of a First Officer and only a plaything, he might able to. Then Leonard tore through those fantasies by carting Spock off to Georgia.

Luckily, his mind is starting to supplant his anger at McCoy's inference (and audacity) with new fantasies of domination over Mr. Spock. And it's possible that he might include Bones somewhere in there too—as another foolish man to be taught a lesson. He vacillates on the subject of handling the doctor. McCoy is good for sex, very good for it in fact, and maintains similar tastes in the bedroom that Jim does. Bones also makes the most delightfully sinful noises when he is coming or when Kirk is particularly enthusiastic with his technique.

Sex is great, yes, but something Kirk can have plenty of, even as an Admiral.

Is McCoy worth more than a romp? On the Enterprise, the answer was clearly yes. Kirk remains intact and functional today mainly due to the basic alliance between the Captain and the Doctor.

Now he is an Admiral, with a soon-to-be rise to a whole other (magnificent) level of power. Well, Kirk thinks idly as he signals for his newest conquest to remove her shirt, the Emperor will need a trustworthy physician. Perhaps that shall be sufficient to keep Leonard McCoy alive.

* * *

The meetings of the three are clandestine, which is a riot for McCoy (he says so) and a nuisance for Kirk (who prefers to announce his declarations of war). They never come together in the same place twice, and always have to eliminate one or two possible threats to the discovery of their joint collaboration. Were anyone to catch a rumor of the three reunited, it would surely rock the Fleet… and turn those cold vicious eyes of the Emperor's Council upon them, swiftly followed by execution.

Spock allows Kirk to monitor his progress on the project—the crux of their civility with one another. The Vulcan builds each piece of the weapon separately, like a small gadget of no important purpose. Eventually all the parts shall fit together to a whole, and then the destruction can commence.

Leonard, however, is vital to the success of the outlined plan. When Spock explains this, rather flat-voiced and offhand, to McCoy, the man stares at the Vulcan for five seconds before breaking into rough laughter. Then he tells Spock to go to Hell and gets up to leave.

Spock is on McCoy in an instant, pressing that frail Human body onto the table by the throat until the doctor's eyes leak tears of suffocation.

"Spock!" Kirk snaps. "You kill him and we're all screwed."

The Vulcan eases up on his bruising grip. "Doctor," he addresses McCoy below him, "you will provide assistance as instructed."

"Fuck you," McCoy rattles.

Spock wastes no time in proving his point. He keeps the doctor pinned to the table and arranges his free fingertips across the side of McCoy's face.

"You may make a choice now, Leonard. I have not enslaved your mind but I can; I will, if I must. Do you yield to me?"

The answer is low, full of spite. Sincere. "No."

Kirk's hand locks tightly onto the Vulcan's wrist. "Spock," he warns.

"Captain." The Vulcan pauses to consider this second Human. "Why do you interfere?"

"As…attractive as I find the idea of Bones at our beck-and-call, can you assure me that the change won't be noticeable to others?"

Leonard struggles, then, against the table, against the hand on his face. "Jim! You son of a bitch!"

Spock answers, "I can bind his will but the task requires elimination of any… prominent traits of resistance."

"I'm not a fucking puppet!" McCoy screams. "Either you fucking crush the life out of me, Spock, or let me go!"

"Doctor, I must have your cooperation, freely given or not."

"Let him go," the Admiral decides.

Spock, surprisingly, releases the doctor who lays limp and shuddering. Those dark unfathomable Vulcan eyes fix on Kirk and a question is made from a statement. "You have no… emotional attachment to McCoy."

Kirk smirks. "No, but I like fucking someone more lively than a doll." He eyes his former First Officer. "Of course, you weren't much better than that, were you, Spock? Vulcan control really ruins a good time."

McCoy sits up, rubbing the bruises on his neck. "You're an asshole, Kirk."

"You owe me now, Bones."

The doctor grimaces. "Sure, keep believing that. But who's to say that Spock won't put me down anyway and then fry your brains too?"

The expression on the Admiral's face cannot qualify as anything other than blatant self-confidence. "Spock needs us as we are. Isn't that right, Mr. Spock?"

The Vulcan tilts his head. "For maximal efficiency, you are correct."

Kirk adds, "So in order to appease us mere pawns—" Kirk sneers as he says this word. "—in his master plan and prevent a less-than-satisfactory outcome, Spock will agree to a few conditions."

That eyebrow goes up.

"Always compromise with your enemies, Mr. Spock, until you can destroy them," the Admiral advises.

"State your terms," the Vulcan replies smoothly.

McCoy breaks in with "Keep your Vulcan mind-control to yourself."

"As you wish."

That answer does not satisfy the doctor. He asks, suspiciously and from an aching throat, "How do we know that your word is good, Spock?"

"You do not."

"That makes me feel a lot better," McCoy tells the other man.

"We're all two-faced, Bones. Let's just pretend, for the moment, that we live by honor."

"Honor's overrated and damn detrimental to my health, but a'right."

"Your terms, Captain?" A tentative alliance is forming.

"I want full control of the machine."

McCoy snorts. Spock is as enthusiastic as the doctor. "Negative."

"Then it shall require us of both to operate it. Consider it a guarantee, on your behalf, of my immunity to the fate our opposition faces."

There is a short stretch of silence as each power-that-be tries to read the intentions of other. Finally, Spock—having arrived at some conclusion none but himself will be privy to—agrees.

McCoy stands up and looks from Kirk to Spock and back again. His hands drop to his sides and remain there, his entire body coiled and waiting. There is a heavy sense to the air, as it always feels right before a lightning strike; it is a terrifying combination of anticipation and apprehension.

Kirk breaks the heaviness with his electric grin (and an unnamed burning in his eyes). "There is one more condition, Mr. Spock." Kirk half-turns to McCoy as well, probably savoring a victory he hasn't yet won. "Doctor, for you also."

McCoy watches him cautiously, with knowing eyes. "It won't work, Jim."

Spock inclines his head in invitation. Kirk does exactly that. "I want full participation," he states.

There is no need for other words, another phrase. All three understand the statement exactly for what it is, exactly as Kirk intends them to, because of two truths: McCoy knows that Jim will never be satisfied until he has the Vulcan under his thumb in some fashion; and Spock knows that his initial manipulation of the Captain's lust has consequences which cannot be reversed.

"You desire mutual copulation."

"Yes," Kirk says simply and McCoy hisses.

"I shall agree, Jim," the Vulcan tells him. "However, I have an obligation to warn you. When a Vulcan male seeks sexual release, his control is not optimal."

"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Spock."

McCoy remarks, "I doubt you should, Jim. I really do."

Jim has that look in his eyes that always bodes ill for his enemies. "As a doctor, McCoy, I'm sure you'll be prepared to—" His grin is sharp and challenging. "—handle the aftermath."

"I hope he breaks your neck in bed."

"I'm sure you do, but you might want to worry about your own neck. Spock seems to have an affinity for twisting it."

The doctor steps up to Kirk. "Who says I'll be joining you?"

"Because you want me, Bones," Jim says softly as his fingers skim the fingerprints left in McCoy's flesh. "You want me and I want him."

McCoy says too gently, "I hate you, and one day I'll kill you because of it, Jim."

Kirk pulls him close. "I know you'll try."

They seal the promise with a kiss that tastes bitterly of the future.

* * *

Later, when Leonard is alone and Jim is satisfied for the evening, the doctor has no more stomach for idleness. He realizes that their triad can become the most unstoppable force in the galaxy, if they each own up to a margin of trust. Spock can savor the fruition of years of scheming; Kirk can rule with an iron fist and his name fawned from every mouth in the Empire. McCoy… But this is where the dream breaks apart.

McCoy almost wants the plan to blossom, just out of curiosity. What is it that a hard-eyed Vulcan such as Mr. Spock wants badly enough that he uses whatever means he has—including his body—to achieve completion? However, that night, watching both Kirk and Spock fight each other in a grotesque naked wrestle for dominance—the sharp smell of blood and sweat—tells Leonard all he needs to know. They—this threesome which slowly grows beyond the bed and into the harsh daylight of reality—are a failure in the making. Three separate individuals at war that, when chaos finally wins, will tear into his partners with the ferocity of a wild beast.

It won't work.

It can't work, because if it does go so far as to see Kirk into power and Spock at the culmination of some long-desired revenge—then what happens to McCoy? He doesn't need the attention of the galaxy focused on his every whim; he doesn't need a billion crushed souls to shake loose from his fist.

Whether Jim plans to kill Spock eventually, Leonard does not care; and James T. Kirk is not a man of intimacy or partnership—not in the least. So it's a dead-end road for a doctor, perhaps a Vulcan too, but Leonard does not have the capacity for mental persuasion like Spock to survive. What he does know, with certainty, is that neither Jim nor Spock will ensure Leonard's safety after his part of the deal is done.

The dwindling hours of the night are hushed. McCoy rubs the scar on his face no less than a dozen times as he contemplates Fate over a half-empty bottle of bourbon. The drink warms him when all other options leave him cold. In the end, as the sun rises, it's easy—much too easy—in the early dawn to make that brief call. He says to his 'recruiter,' voice strained from Spock's attack, "I've got a charge of high treason for you. …. Yeah, the Admiral… and my slave, Spock."

It ends with a promise and a beginning.

McCoy stands up, turns around to the shadowed doorway. "Satisfied?"

The Vulcan makes no reply. His response is, silently, _for now_.


	6. Part Six

McCoy is treated as badly as Kirk and Spock during the interrogation sessions. Doesn't matter that he acts as a good citizen of the Empire; a rat is still a rat, and the Council trusts no one. Every threat against the Empire or its Emperor is considered true until proven false. His apartment is ripped apart by grim-faced security teams; the medical office turned upside down. His communications—even orders to a lowly assistant for replicated coffee—played and re-played. Suddenly Leonard McCoy is not a nameless face heading a list of useful skills to the Council members. He is a man accusing an Admiral of treason. Whether they really think this is an act of a jealous lover on McCoy's behalf, he cannot say for certain. If it is decided so, he's screwed for making false accusations. If he is found to be correct and Kirk guilty, then he is spared a public beheading and probably given a slap on the wrist for slow observation.

The fact that this plan entirely rests on the one Vulcan's long nights of careful calculations makes McCoy sick to his stomach. Of course, that could just be the smell of fear and desperation leaking into the hall from the other windowless rooms in the Security sector of Starfleet Headquarters.

They want to know everything, each detail:

How did he know? What is Kirk planning? How is Spock involved? When did Kirk interact with the slave; how intimately? What does Spock do in his lab? What sort of "gifts" have the doctor and Admiral traded? How would he define his relationship with James T. Kirk?

His head reels from question after question until it becomes excruciating to think or speak; McCoy knows less than half of the answers (and no answers he can mention without implicating his true agenda) and he can only make up the rest as he goes along. Leonard is a genius at medical practice but not at sabotage. He tries his best, shows the right amount of nervousness to be believable for a man under such intense scrutiny but not enough to make him seem like a liar.

When he is finally released, Leonard locks his knees inside the elevator and takes a deep breath.

This game is dangerous, much more dangerous than he anticipated.

What is Jim telling them? What if Kirk and Spock are working against him, though it's Leonard's job to bring them close to the Council? But he doesn't understand how this can happen, not really, by the current string of events. McCoy may be the Council's man, but his opinion is less than shit on their shoes.

No, it doesn't seem quite right and that makes his stomach crap. So he acts only an untrusting man in a precarious situation can: he gathers allies close and his enemies closer.

* * *

"Scotty?"

There is a garble of noise on the other end of the comm; McCoy makes the call on-the-sly and keeps his fingers crossed that the investigators tracking him won't be privy to this conversation.

The Scotsman comes on screen, dirty and streaked with some dark substance. Leonard knows it's better not to ask questions concerning the man's activities in the pits of a starship's innards.

"Ah, McCoy. What can I do for ye?" Montgomery Scott never does a favor from the goodness of his heart; it's a well-known fact that Mr. Scott's heart is little more than black ice.

The doctor takes a chance. "We need to talk."

"Hear you're puttin' the Captain in a bind doun there, McCoy."

Leonard leans in, lowers his voice. "About Kirk's weapon, Mr. Scott."

It's the silence and the quick shift of Scotty's eyes that tells McCoy his guess is right on the money. Before the Scotsman can deny knowledge of such a subject, he says, "I've got a new prototype. Wanna look?"

So easily lured. Of course the Chief Engineer wants to take a look; he's probably salivating in some sort of weird machine-lust over the idea. They arrange a meeting at a little hole-in-the-wall pub in San Francisco's slums.

McCoy rubs the back of his neck, re-buttons his overcoat and slips outdoors into the shadows on the street. The Chief Engineer knows every nook and cranny of his Lady Enterprise. How else would Kirk have gotten his toy installed? Of course, the implications of that particular alliance are endless, and not something McCoy plans to waste his time pondering over.

There is much at stake—his life, for one. His gut screams_ treachery_, and as Leonard lives by instinct, there is little to do but obey his intuition.

* * *

The investigation goes on for weeks. In such time, Leonard is watched by colleagues and superiors alike. He is allowed to continue working at Starfleet Medical, to take low-priority cases and do consultations. It's boring but McCoy is not foolish enough to complain. When he goes out into the city, it's with a deep tension in his back muscles and a sharp eye trained on his surroundings. He does not feel secure.

Spock is returned to his master after ten days in isolation and probable torture. The doctor wonders if the Council arranged for another telepath to empty Spock's mind of all his thoughts. Considering that the Vulcan is as cool as ever and functions the same, Leonard has to wonder just how strong that mind must be. (Another thought pushed to the side for later perusal.) Spock does not talk of his experience away from McCoy, and the doctor does not ask.

Kirk, of course, is released after merely a few days of "chat" and taken off active duty. Though the rumors fly throughout the Fleet, the Admiral maintains his usual half-smirk and domineering personality. How he passes the time, when no sane person wants to come within a hundred feet of him, McCoy knows not. They cannot contact one another without sending off major warning bells to every distrustful mind in the Empire.

But, oh, the doctor wonders. What is it that Kirk told them? (Why was he released so quickly?)

How are the three of them going to climb the ranks to the top, killing as they go, when faced with heavy suspicion at every turn?

Then McCoy has no more time for pondering (or backup-planning); he is dragged once again into an Interrogation Room by unfriendly faces with phasers, met with not one but three hard-eyed men in official Imperial uniforms.

"Tell us about your ideals, Doctor," they order.

"Explain the conversation in which you engaged with the Cardassian ambassador—"

"—why were you traveling off-planet?"

It goes on and on. They don't want to rehash why he feels that Kirk is a traitor to the Empire. They want to know about Doctor Leonard McCoy. Too much about him—every place he's visited in the last three years; every man, woman or child he's ever approached; what he does in his spare time; who his professional contacts are. Every inquiry is rougher, more paranoid, and that alerts McCoy to the direness of his situation.

Leonard finally ends up back at his apartment (slowly being stripped of its furnishings) in the quiet solitude of his bedroom with two armed guards loitering in the next room. All the doors are disabled from closing. He has ten minutes to settle personal business, like a last fuck with his slave (_how generous of them_). It's over for Leonard McCoy, they tell him; his future is a dismal incarceration in a holding cell until further notice.

First, he goes over to his computer console and idly depresses three buttons; the screen shudders and the machine beeps confirmation once. Then he faces his nemesis. McCoy cannot say all that he wants to, not now, but he knows the Vulcan will understand. Simply, "Why?"

Spock approaches him and lifts that long-fingered hand, slides those rough-padded fingertips against Leonard's cheekbone. The words push unbidden into McCoy's mind, like precisely dropped stones.

_A necessary ploy. Jim presents evidence that you are a spy for the Romulan Federation, you are found guilty of treason and executed. Given Starfleet's awareness of the Admiral's past and present relationship with you, Doctor, you are the most likely candidate. _

The most expendable, Spock implies.

_We—_

Jim and Spock, McCoy substitutes.

_—gain the first foothold in the enemy's lair, as irrefutably loyal to the Empire. It must be so._

McCoy controls his tremors (of rage) and the deep desire to strangle this creature. It makes sense: Leonard is the decoy, the way into the good graces of a vicious party of men Spock and Kirk plan to slowly destroy.

The doctor does not allow his emotions to run wild; Spock will taste them, connected as they are.

So. Kirk will be rewarded with McCoy's slave, no doubt. The Admiral gets his revenge on the Doctor and regains his Vulcan, all in one sweeping move. How many secret meetings did Kirk and Spock have, without McCoy, as they carefully inked out the details of their plot? Coincided plausible stories to make a believable case against the doctor?

The whisper is barely audible to Human hearing but not for a Vulcan ear. Leonard has to know, "Will you kill him, in the end?"

_Yes._

"Do it slowly," Leonard tells him. "You owe me that much."

The Vulcan releases his hold on the doctor. A guard calls "Time's up. Let's go."

Kirk is standing outside the apartment with a little smile in his eyes as McCoy is shackled. Leonard says nothing to the Admiral, only watches without expression when Kirk beckons the Vulcan from the doorway and to his side. Spock goes, unerringly.

Jim runs a possessive hand down the slack arm of his new prize. "Sorry, Bones. I have to do what's best for our… Emperor."

Oh, yes. Doctor McCoy is certain of that motive, at the very least. "I'll be seeing you, Jim," he replies and is led away.

* * *

The niceties are disregarded as soon as the thick cell door engages its locks. McCoy prefers not to think about those days in the white-walled chamber with one chair. He purposefully ignores the lingering shock of his nerve pathways as they remember the pain of brutal and unending torture; Leonard wakes in the middle of the night, often enough, from the nightmare of his memories.

Most importantly, however, he can retain a strip of pride. Doctor Leonard McCoy never gave any other answer—when they demanded a confession—than either "The Admiral framed me," "Kirk's distracting you," or "He'll kill you all before you know it."

Eventually one of his torturers replied, "Yeah, that so?" and Leonard laughed so hard he thought his insides would burst. He only stopped when the second blow to his head knocked him unconscious.

In that cell, time had no meaning, only the counting pace of the guards echoing off the walls. He learns that his imprisonment lasted sixteen days, a miserable gut-wrenching mass of hours in which Imperialist officers enjoyed breaking down his Humanity piece by piece. McCoy does not forget that final day, when he blinked his eyes open to a light-shrouded figure who spoke, carelessly, "You're free to go, 3-5-8."

McCoy's ID tag (just the bold number 358) shook on his wrist as he levered himself off of the floor, staggered upright. What a sight he must have been to that impeccably dressed blank-faced man.

Scotty followed through with his half of the plan. Leonard had begun to think that the engineer would leave him rotting in prison until the day of his announced public execution—and then watch, grinning, as McCoy was sawed into bits for the entertainment of paying viewers. Sitting alone—when he was allowed to be alone or not strapped down—the doctor slowly accepted the fact that he made a grave mistake when he retired—by taking Spock from Kirk—and that it would kill him; he had accepted that the situation was without hope and that he had bargained with the wrong men. But then McCoy is released to the open air and flashing news broadcasts of James T. Kirk's face with the bold lettering WANTED stamped underneath.

He should have known Jim wouldn't be caught. Surprisingly, that makes little difference to Leonard, in the moment of his freedom. He stops to lean against a low brick wall and gather his strength.

When he escorted Spock back to this apartment (for the last time) and found armed men waiting on him, he knew then that one twisted game was over and he was the loser. So Leonard had no choice but to save himself; he released a carefully worded warning to each and every Admiral (except Jim). It was succinct: _Beware Kirk._ _He can make you disappear._

Kirk insisted that Spock build his weapon to require both men for operation. Smart, when a man cannot trust his partner-in-crime not to turn on him. But Scotty is a mechanical genius and when Leonard handed him a copy of the blueprints, he knew that the engineer could make a second device as originally designed. For some strange reason, it took even less convincing to get Scotty to kill someone with it. Perhaps the man has always been jealous that Kirk kept the device for himself; perhaps Mr. Scott just enjoys sticking his finger in the pie and messing up a chain of meticulously planned events.

McCoy feels no guilt over the casualty. That particular (quiet, under-spoken) Admiral, whom McCoy had Mr. Scott vaporize into oblivion, was unlucky enough to be the liaison between the Fleet and the Council, and therefore the man who recruited Leonard for personal service to the Emperor's Council. Such a horribly played move if one wants to insinuate oneself into a position of trust; such a perfect kill to spoil Kirk's plans.

No matter. An Admiral disappears out of his chair in the middle of a briefing, in the blink of an eye, and all fingers (and probably a few phasers) point to Kirk—and not in the way Jim enjoys either. Then the Council has a rather large mess of upset, blood-hungry officers, a replacement to acquire, and—fortunately—a man to blame.

Yes, McCoy owes Scotty a very large favor, indeed; he shall begin to repay his debt with a decent-sized bottle of finely aged scotch. A bottle of bourbon for himself, to keep him going through the days ahead of political uproar and struggle. He has no idea where he'll land, if he'll end up in a grave instead of on his own two feet.

Leonard smiles to himself as he slowly drags his battered body to Starfleet Medical.

There is not much assurance for the future but he is consoled by one single, satisfying truth: Jim and Spock must hate Leonard with a passion.

Finally, the feeling is mutual.


	7. Part Seven

It's as if the universe brings them together on purpose, if only to laugh in their faces at a power that can _never be_. McCoy does not expect to see Jim or Spock again, not unless it's in the brief two seconds before he is disintegrated by a phaser or slit from ear-to-ear. But they do meet, in the most unlikely of places and without prior planning or connivance.

Leonard serves on a colony small enough to be useless in strategical warfare but populated by a group of "reformers" that need special conditioning before they can join the Emperor's army. That requires a doctor—not a particularly skilled doctor, just one wise enough to reattach limbs, seal gaping holes and keep his mouth shut. McCoy finds this suitable, as he has nothing better lined up nor ever will. He has an intact sanity, two working hands, and a shambles of a career.

But he's not black-listed like Jim.

Funny. McCoy always felt that Kirk could have savaged his career by that convincing sweet-talk he can call up at will (no man believes it, not for an instant, if they really know James T. Kirk). Spend a month or two in space, make a few calls (and kills); surely it wouldn't have been too hard for a former Admiral to smooth the path for his return. After all, there was no justifiable evidence to incriminate Jim (McCoy never did figure out where Spock hid their weapon). So what if the Admiral is debunked to Captain (or worse) and sent back on the battlefield for the rest of his days?

Jim, and McCoy sure it's on purpose, does not attempt to persuade Starfleet or any Council member of his innocence or his worth to the Empire. Rather, he solidifies every reason for the Emperor to place a steep price on his head.

Jim Kirk forms a band of marauders. He does become galaxy-renowned—for all the wrong reasons.

And when Leonard hears those awed bar tales of how Kirk overtakes every cruiser he encounters with finesse, that if a ship meets Kirk's vessel in open space, its captain will vanish like a ghost… well, McCoy may be hunched over his drink but the scowl on his face is actually a half-smile because damned if Kirk doesn't always win in some way every fucking time.

So he still has the device. And Jim still has Spock to help him work it.

McCoy will down the rest of his drink and think, as he goes from a dark sleazy bar to a darker, dirtier medical ward, that at least there are a billion stars between him and those two bastards.

Turns out, space is small enough to fuck him over. Or maybe that's just Fate.

* * *

His prey never changes, not even after being stripped bare and laid open to the clutches of Imperialist torture specialists. That pleases him, somehow. He listens to the "—God-damn lazy bastards! I told you to move these supplies _fucking _hours ago—"

It's rare that Doctor McCoy doesn't round a corner spitting curses and terrifying lowly workers with his blazing blue eyes and deliciously ragged scar.

Only Kirk's taken care of those workers and the doctor won't realize his mistake until much too late. McCoy shoves past the door, into the cramped filthy office labeled Cargo Manager; he doesn't bother to command the light settings to engage. Wouldn't have worked anyway. Spock's rearranged the power units rumbling in the backroom.

It's perfect, really, and rather satisfying when he catches the doctor around the neck and whispers "Hello there, Bones."

The man pressed to him goes absolutely still, barely breathing for just a second or two.

Then, "_Jim._ Shoulda known." There's a pause. "Well, are you going to face me like a decent man, or just stab me in the back?"

McCoy smells good, like sweat, resignation and a touch of strong bourbon. Jim runs the phaser across the doctor's belly, caressing as he replies, "We've done quite a bit of back-stabbing, haven't we, Bones?"

There is a slight shift, as McCoy leans into his hold. "Sure. Par for the course."

Kirk continues to slide his phaser against his captive, now running up and down a clothed thigh.

McCoy wants to know, in a low tone, "How did you track me here?"

The man supposes he can give his Bones an honest answer. "I didn't. Neither did Spock." The name sends a little shiver through McCoy; Jim feels it, savors it. "We just happened to be running down a freighter, and wouldn't you know it… your name was on the paperwork."

The doctor gives a short bark of laughter. "Lots of McCoys in the galaxy, Captain."

Jim hasn't heard that name said quite so fondly in a long time. He likes it.

"Only one Dr. L.H. McCoy that I know of, Bones, and it's a good thing I decided to beam down to pay you a visit."

"Why is that?" Bones sounds only mildly curious.

Kirk pulls hard at that bent neck, enjoys watching the vein beat against the skin rhythmically. He leans down and kisses the pulse. "'Cause my ship needs a doctor."

He allows McCoy to break loose. The man spins around, gloriously gaping and enraged. "You're fucking kidding me!" he fairly spits. Kirk steps back to keep his boots out of range.

He puts on his best smile and levels his phaser between two sharp blue eyes. "I don't kid. Which shall it be? Death or… eventual death?"

"Well let's see, Jim, I can die standing up or die under you. Hard choice. Take the shot."

It must be because Bones' swift decision surprises him that Kirk doesn't fire then and there.

"Haven't got all day, Jim-boy."

"Bones…"

"Shoot or quit wasting my time."

"Unfortunately, McCoy," he tells the incensed man, "the choice isn't in either of our hands."

Bones' eyes widen marginally but before he can spin around and spit out "Spock!" long Vulcan fingers pinch his neck in just the right spot.

Kirk doesn't bother to break the man's fall. He eyes his Vulcan partner and says, "Satisfied?"

Spock merely arranges the doctor's body over his shoulder and activates the beaming signal in his communicator. The three are transported away, a bright flash in a pit of darkness.

* * *

"You're a fucking lunatic, Spock. Can't your puny Vulcan brain comprehend that?"

"The size of my brain is irrelevant to this conversation."

"I'd say not. You don't seem to understand the simple word NO."

An alarm beeps and the door slides back to allow Kirk entrance. "Good, I see you two are getting along."

McCoy rattles the straps that bind him to the small bed. "Yeah, real damn hilarious, Jim. Come to visit for a little midnight rape?"

Kirk sits on the edge of the bed and quirks the corner of his mouth. "Since when have I ever had to rape you, McCoy?"

"'First time for everything!' If that ain't your fucking middle name, then it should be."

Kirk makes a pleased noise and reaches over to gently grasp the doctor's chin. "We underestimated you. That was a mistake."

McCoy meets the other man's stare, unflinchingly. "How do you like the taste of failure, Jim? Unpleasant, isn't it?"

"It makes me hungry for victory."

They share a mutual understanding, in a brief space of time. Spock interrupts with "Your Human emotions are extraneous. Doctor, we have offered you a truce. Will you accept?"

"A truce requires trust." McCoy casts a deliberate glance at his bindings. "See why I fail to believe you, Spock, or do I have to spell it out…_again?_"

Kirk undoes the doctor's left wrist as Spock snaps the lock on the right. McCoy sits up and rubs at the raw marks. He then stands and faces away from both the Captain and his First Officer. When Leonard McCoy comes to some decision, he says without malice or rancor, "That weapon's on this ship, correct?"

"Affirmative."

He looks first at Spock, then Kirk. "Destroy it and I'll join you."

"The device remains intrinsic to our safety, Doctor, given the current status of the Captain and myself in the eyes of the Empire."

"Besides," Kirk adds, "I like it."

"The way it's built, gentlemen," the doctor emphasizes, "does not include a third. We'll acquire another, one that any of us could use, at any time."

Kirk's eyes are dark. "You ask a lot, Bones."

"Equal footing." McCoy says gently, "And you understand, _Captain_, that if I want to kill you, I'll find a way." He flicks his gaze to the Vulcan, who nods.

They all understand; they are alike, these three. Vicious. Uncontrollable. Unpredictable.

No one is safe.

"Done," the Captain decides; he rises, paces to the Vulcan and back. "Spock doesn't have the tools to make another one."

"No need, Jim." McCoy's mouth stretches in that infamous wolf grin, the white of his scar catching the light. "I know just where we can get one." He walks up to the other Human, grabs a fist full of that black tunic and pulls the other into his orbit. "It might require a fight, though."

"I like fights too," Jim replies, eyes half-hooded.

McCoy releases him, addresses the silent Spock. "So whose willfully deceptive slave are you now, Spock?"

"I am no man's slave," the Vulcan answers.

"Out here," McCoy confirms, "none of us are."

_-Fini_


End file.
